Trip to Hawkes Bay

Last Monday I attended a dear friend's mother's funeral.

Every weekday morning throughout high school, I would bike around to their place and stand in the kitchen, often chatting to Irene if she wasn't on a shift, as I waited for Wendy to be ready. Then the two and a half mile bike to school. Never mind the rain, frost, orchard spray, or baking Hawkes Bay afternoon sun. 

From that house I remember: the Escher print they had on the wall, a cuckoo clock, the beehives in the garden, and rows of seedling trees to supplement those supplied to the council by nurseries, the occasional Indonesian meal, a scornful look at my mentioning curry powder, clothes always being made on a sewing machine, Irene telling us to use a little power on our lids to stop eyeshadow going into the crease, Nick telling me about the century plants of Havelock North, that flower only once, and die once they have flowered ...